“Ah, well,” said Spanswick with an effort, “me and you can’t afford to quarrel. We’ve both got our axes to grind. Whereabouts is Pall Mall?”
“You’re in it now. It runs up that way to the bottom of St. James’s Street.”
“That’s the best of ’aving been a parcels carman,” sighed Spanswick enviously. “I was never anything but a goods man, and I never had no chances of getting amongst the aristocracy as you have. Otherwise I should meet you on equal terms. How’s the young woman?”
“What young woman?”
“Are there so many of ’em as all that? Seems to me,” remarked Spanswick thoughtfully, “that some of you lead a double life. You’ll come a cropper over it some day, mark my words.”
“I’ll mark your face,” retorted Erb with a sudden burst of annoyance. “I’ve put up with just about enough from you. I may be your secretary, but I’m not your slave.”
“Old man, don’t let’s go kicking up a common fracass here. You don’t understand my style of humour. This newspaper, or journal, or organ, or whatever you like to call it—how’s it going?”
“Well,” said Erb, returning to good temper. “I find I’m having to do it pretty nigh all myself. There’s another column to do now before the first number’s ready.”
“I’m pretty ’andy with me pen,” remarked the other. “I don’t prefess to be a literary man, of course, but— I’ll send you in a few items of news.”
“I shall be ever so much obliged to you. Make ’em smart and readable, mind.”